The Demonologia Biblica

by Wilde, Barbie

  The demon tumbled backward and fell twenty feet into the molten liquid, screaming until the river swallowed him whole.

  The lava belched.

  Uphir wiped a healthy layer of sweat from his brow before he turned and stalked off for more prey.

  Almost immediately, another demon in Lucifer’s employ charged at him, this time the sword held overhead, both hands grasping the handle. Uphir noticed it was one of his own underlings, one that had joined him at the coffeepot this morning and complained about the lack of vacation time he had received. His eyes were wide, his tongue lodged between his molars, and Uphir sensed that he would have to put this runt in his place.

  Uphir grunted and he swung his own sword in self-defense just as the underling brought his weapon down with a hop, skip and a leap. The steel collided against the thin blade, Uphir’s momentum carrying the two blades to the side, pinning the underling’s weapon against the stone.

  The underling blinked and turned pink just as Uphir reached back and drove his right claw into his throat, piercing the flesh.

  Uphir raked out the underling’s esophagus, tearing it away with a bloody squelch. The underling immediately dropped to the ground, the threat erased with vicious efficiency. Uphir dropped the beast’s windpipe before wiping the demon’s blood off on his trousers. His Seer Sucker suit was now stained with the blood of evil, and he cared not for how it looked.

  He withheld a cackle.

  Swiftly his enemies withdrew after noticing the carnage the large being had caused all by his lonesome. They began fighting amongst themselves, cowering as soon as his bulk towered over them. He hissed, sending them scurrying for cover.

  Within seconds, the battleground had cleared and Uphir stood there, his blood-stained blade still thirsty, a sneer drawing across his lips as he surveyed the carnage, looking over the dead demons, their carcasses opened, their ragged clothing scarred with blood and black scorch marks. He smiled to himself knowing they would not put in a claim for health care. He felt blood on his face. His slid his tongue across his skin, lapping up the small flecks. He easily swallowed the coppery fluid. It strengthened him, sending life to his limbs while increasing his heart rate. The muscles squeezed and sent blood—his own this time—outward.

  He snarled a groan as he pushed off, stifling a deep breath as he stared hard at his next target while he walked with his head held high.

  He just had no idea how he would get past that blasted three-headed dog—and if he would need to reject his own medical claim later on should he lose this battle…

  V Is F or Vicua

  A Monster of a Deal

  Andy Taylor

  Vicua: A demon believed to roam the deep South American jungle looking for fresh blood, its favorite type being human

  Eight men stand inside an empty warehouse, eyes watching the open doors in anticipation. The eight have the hardened looks of men accustomed to violence. Tonight is a very important night for these men, tonight will be the end of a long war, a war that has taken far too many lives and decimated both sides in the conflict. It is not a war between countries but a war between opposing crime families, each vying for control of the same territory in which to peddle their perspective poisons.

  The waiting eight are from one side of the conflict, the O’Shan family. Their head, Rory O’Shan has brought seven of his best men with him for a meeting with their hated rivals the Tortega Cartel. The two groups had once been on friendly terms with one another, well, maybe not friendly but they were at least business partners.

  The Tortega Cartel was a South American drug family whose power was so feared that they operated with complete autonomy in Northern Brazil. They were a brutal group that killed anyone who stood in the way of profit. Estoban Pablo ruled with an iron fist and to disobey him was to court death. One of the keys to their success in the soulless market known as the drug trade was their brutal method of quickly dispatching rivals. Their partners were the feared group of Irish American immigrants known as the O’Shan family.

  Rory O’Shan brought together a small group of disgruntled Irishmen and turned them into a vicious empire that ran up and down America’s eastern coast. They were known for heartless, almost inhuman violence and a ferocious attitude toward those who stood against them. They also happened to be experts in smuggling, something that made them very valuable to the Tortega Cartel.

  A deal was brokered between the two sides and the O’Shans became employees of the Tortegas. This would never sit very well with Rory O’Shan.

  While the money may have been good, the idea of being subservient to another group was not what the old Irishman had intended. Instead of being loyal servants the O’Shans began skimming a bit off the top, than a bit more, and a bit more until it was all but impossible for their employers not to know what was happening.

  Estoban was no fool and knew the O’Shans were a valuable ally but stealing could not be allowed. He decided to send Rory a message, that message being the head of Rory’s five year old son.

  Cruel, heartless, and with a love for violence, Rory was as evil as they came and he feared nothing, not even the head of one of the world’s most powerful drug families. He had one love in life, one thing that truly brought him happiness, his son; seeing his only child’s head in a box drove him nearly mad and he ordered that from then on out, all members of the Tortega Cartel were targets. Thus the war was begun.

  Their war lasted almost eight years, and only came to an end when both sides had been devastated to the point that smaller rival gangs were now moving in for the kill. The two sides met and came to an agreement; each side would get their respective territories and would stay out of their rival’s way. They agreed to do one last deal, just to seal their agreement (an old drug running tradition), the O’Shans would purchase a large shipment of cocaine hidden inside coffee crates and the two sides would be done with one another. That deal is set for tonight.

  The eight anxious men hear a forklift in the distance, its beeps getting louder and louder until it enters in through heavy slide away doors. Three newcomers walk into the warehouse followed closely by the forklift carrying four wooden crates. The group comes to a halt ten feet away from where Rory O’Shan and his men stand. A tall man with tribal tattoos covering his face steps forward, his head is shaved, his arms seem a bit too long, and the nice black suit he wears seems ill fitting. At his bidding the four crates are set toward the back where they can be inspected for Rory’s satisfaction.

  “Where’s the old man?” asked Rory, both bosses were to have met together for the last time.

  “I regret to inform you,” said the tall man in an unknown accent, “that he is unable to make the trip. He sends his regards, but was held up due to unforeseen circumstances.” The man’s English was nearly perfect, but the accent added a rough guttural sound to his words.

  In truth, Rory had only asked because it seemed the thing to do in his position. He knew exactly why their boss had been unable to come. He knew because it was his wish that it happen, and Rory was a master of getting what he wished for. Once Rory knew the date and time of the meeting he had put a plan into action. He found a man who was unwilling to stay in the profession he had found himself stuck in, that profession being a lackey for the Tortega Cartel.

  Rory gave him a perfect opportunity to escape his unwanted life, and a large severance pay to go with it. At this moment their boss was likely rotting in a jail cell. Rory had paid the turncoat a great sum of money to place a little contraband in the old man’s car. He had paid the cops an even greater sum to ignore their fears of the brutal Tortega leader. The old bastard wouldn’t survive the night in jail. Having your son’s head delivered to you via UPS is not something one forgives easily, and Rory had never been the forgiving type in the first place.

  “Too bad,” said Rory sarcastically, “let’s just get this over with then.”

  Rory walked over to one of the opened crates and dug through the expendable coffee grounds to get to his priz
e. Pulling out the large bag of white power he looked over the contraband and pulled a short blade from his jacket.

  Rory noticed the tall man tense up at the glinting metal flash and a wide smile graced his rather unpleasant face. The blade though is not for anyone in the room; as much as he would love to slice every single Tortega man in here, he wouldn’t want them to miss the surprise of their boss’ fate upon their return.

  This knife is only for the bag in front of him. Rory cut the bag open and checked on the substance within, taking only enough to make sure it was good. Rory preferred not to get hooked on his own product, bad for business.

  “It’s good,” he said to no one in particular. “This deal is done, go home and tell your master our business is concluded.”

  As the Tortega men turned to leave, Rory noticed that the tall man seemed a little too eager to be gone. Now Rory was used to people being eager to leave his presence, but something was wrong here. Rory had always listened to his instincts, and they had never led him astray, now was not the time to start ignoring them. He took a quick second look, paying much closer attention this time around, and that’s when he saw it, a glint of metal showing through a crack at the bottom of the crate. Rory turned and gave his men a knowing look and each of them knew exactly what to do.

  “What the hell is this?” Rory screamed. The four Tortega men turned to see seven guns pointed at them.

  The tall man panicked. He had never been in this kind of situation before. It was his job to capture the things, deliver them, and be gone before anything was noticed. No one had ever pointed a gun at him. He searched for an answer, something to tell the man, anything, just so he could get out of here. “I don’t know what you’re talking about my friend,” was all he could get out.

  Rory drew his own weapon, and pointed it straight at the group, “Please do not insult my intelligence. I will ask you one more time, what is going on here?”

  “Sir, you must understand that I do not…” the tall man was unable to finish. As he stammered for another excuse, Rory fired a shot at the man standing to the left of the tall man. The man’s head snapped backwards before he crumpled to the cold, concrete floor. The tall man leapt back, wanting to run but unable to do so.

  “I am not going to ask again, what is going on here?” Rory kicked the crate in frustration causing the crack to widen, showing a bit more of what looked to be a metal box hidden at the base.

  “Please don’t do that,” the tall man screamed, putting his hands in front of him as if to ward off some great danger. Rory caught the look of fear in the tall man’s eyes and that fear made him feel good.

  “You mean this?” he said as he kicked the crate yet again.

  “I’m begging you, please!”

  Rory walked over to one of his guards, a big burly giant of a man, and whispered something into his ear. The big man walked over to the crate while Rory went to where the tall man was standing and placed a gun to his head. “I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me what is inside those crates. Then, I am going to replace the insides of your head with the insides of this gun.”

  “Please sir; you have no idea what you’re doing.”

  Rory looked over to the big man once again, and the giant knew what to do. He pulled his large foot back and kicked with all his might at the ever widening crack in the side of the crate causing an unexpected reaction as a hidden latch within the crate itself was triggered to release at just such a moment. Coffee and cocaine were flung across the floor as the hatches on top of the hidden metal containers burst open one after another. While the others looked on in shock, the tall man had a knowing look of terror plastered on his tattooed face. He had been expecting this to happen; only he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near when it did. He knew what was lying in wait for the O’Shan men, what had been hidden inside those crates was something every member of his tribe knew to fear.

  Nothing the O’Shan men had ever experienced could be anywhere close to what was waiting for them. The tall man wanted to run, but was unsure which fear was worse, Rory O’Shan’s bullet, or the terror in the metal containers.

  The burly guard who had given the crate its last fateful kick leaned over the opened container and peeked inside. “What the fu…” was all he said before a lightning quick blur of motion slit him from groin to neck. He stood still for a moment, his eyes wide as saucers, while his gut slowly split apart. His insides slopped to the floor making a sickly wet sound as they hit the ground. The man himself followed soon after.

  The room stood in astonished silence while a shape perched itself on the crate’s edge. It was small, maybe only four feet in height. Its skin was a leathery brown and covered in small spikes like that of a dessert reptile.

  While the creature itself was small, the hands were enormous, nearly half the size of the thing in length. Each hand looked almost impossible to lift, but the creature seemed quite capable of moving them with a disturbingly quick speed. Each giant sized hand came equipped with five sharp pointed fingers. There were no nails; each finger simply came to a razor sharp tip.

  It perched on hind legs like that of a kangaroo, making it look as if the creature could jump long distances if it wished. The foot of each leg had three toes, each of which came to the same point as the fingers. The head was placed atop a short bulky neck and was almost perfectly round; the only feature apparent was the large mouth, there were no eyes, no ears, and not even a nose on this off putting face.

  The creature opened its mouth wide to reveal rows of knife-like teeth. The frightful hand lifted to its face and without the use of a nose it seemed to be sniffing the blood dripping off its fingers.

  The blood splashed into its mouth and the thing grew noticeably more excited. It hopped off its perch and stared down at the wrecked corpse underneath it. How it could stare no one knew, but it was definitely looking at its recent victim. It hovered for a moment before plunging its claws into dead flesh, tearing bits and pieces of him off and throwing them in its mouth but it didn’t want the flesh, only the blood. It shoved the chunks in its mouth, chewed them up, and spit the dried remnants out. Three similar creatures got out of their respective containers; each one perched on its own crate, either waiting for the first to finish toying with its victim or someone else in the room to make a move.

  Rory wasn’t going to wait for the creatures to decide, “What are you fools waiting for, shoot the damn things.”

  Each of the O’Shan men opened fire on the unknown beasts, pumping every round they had into the things. The action was less than effective. The creatures let out a terrifying roar, opening their mouths wider than seemed possible as their teeth grew even larger. They rushed at their attackers, barley seeming to notice the shots being fired at them. In fact, it was more of an annoyance than anything else for these hell spawn. Rory could do nothing but watch as one by one his men were torn apart.

  The first man to go down was a lanky individual who had been in Rory’s crew for no more than a year. The first creature to emerge leapt off the bloody mess that used to be a man and landed squarely on the shoulders of the skinny amateur. The poor soul fell to the ground hard as the creature’s claws dug into his flesh. With its feet dug firmly into the grounded man’s shoulders, it reared back and shoved its powerful claws into the man’s chest, causing a great spurt of red to shoot into the air and spray the thing in the face. The gush all over its rounded head drove it into a wild frenzy and it slashed with ecstatic abandon throwing large hunks of meat all around him.

  The next creature jumped at one of Rory’s oldest body guards, a man who had been by Rory’s side through thick and thin. He had seen the big man take on a varied amount of opponents, none of whom had drawn the look of abject terror that flowed from him now.

  He fired round after round at the creature’s leathery hide, but it didn’t have the slightest effect. The gun in his hand dropped to the floor as the thing’s pointed fingers dug into the old man’s abdomen. He looked down at his ripped o
pen gut, and then back up toward the disgusting monster whose hands were buried in his midsection. As blood dribbled out of his mouth he spat at the creature’s face, it was his last action among the living as the thing grabbed his spinal cord and tore it out with a sickening suction sound.

  A third man had both of his arms ripped off his body. He stood screaming in agony, bits of exposed bone stuck out of the bloody stumps, while the creature howled and sent its hand plunging into his chest, coming out with an unrecognizable mess. A fourth had his head torn from his body. While he collapsed to the floor, the creature held his cranium up in the air, staring at it with its eyeless head.

  The fascination disappeared quickly as the creature crushed the skull in its hands, sending bits of grey matter splashing onto its face. Still another person was slashed over and over again until every part of his body was bleeding out. Before he collapsed to the floor, his skin had been completely removed.

  Seeing his entire crew wiped out before his eyes had the effect of sending Rory into panic mode. He took off at full speed toward the exit, knowing that if he didn’t get out of there soon then he wouldn’t be leaving at all. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, followed closely behind by the tall man and the last two Tortega goons. Only one of Rory’s men had survived the initial slaughter, and he was quickly over taking the small group heading toward the door.

  The lone survivor of the O’Shan massacre was right next to the one who’d had his head caved in and the moment he felt the brain pieces splatter his own face he took off. He ran past his boss and the three people with him, determined to make it to the door before any of the nightmarish things got him first. His boss’ anger was the least of his concerns. He would rather face the angry Irishman on his worst day than these things on whatever passed for their best.